I will be part of the Masters of Time panel at EuroPrideCon this weekend, together with the talented Rebecca Cohen and Justine Saracen. I have barely overcome that dreadful sensation of feeling like a fraud everytime someone called me an author. How can I even?

Well, I guess it'll have to be as always - I'll prepare as well as I can, then realize it's all completely useless because I have no clue at all what to prepare for, actually, and then go do it anyway and smile and hope no one will notice. Worked out quite well for me so far. I think. I hope.

But how DOES one prepare for such a panel anyway? Do I talk about what I considered right when I wrote 'Lovers in Arms'? Or what I think I should have done by now? Or what I think would be right for historic romances in general? Do I brush up on my old 'story vs history' talk? What about the 'author as mediator between content and recipient' spiel? Or the old discussion about what my audience expects of me and how the bleep to figure out those expectations in the very first place? What about ‘historic and futuristic novels are essentially the same, as both require the same extensive worldbuilding’? And at what point am I overthinking all this? After all, it’s gonna be just an hour, and I am not supposed to talk all the time. Am I rambling yet?

So at this point of my thought process, I usually lean back, take a deep breath, and try to think of the whole affair as a wondrously exciting adventure weekend. I have never been to Munich before. I have never met other authors (except my lovely wife), and never been to any event this prominently GLBT. There will be a late night screening of The Rocky Horror Picture Show on Friday night, which we hope to attend, which would be another first for me. There will be a Bavarian Dinner Buffet Gala, which fills me with terror and giddy glee in equal measures. I really look forward to meeting people who, until now, I have only met online. However the individual parts will turn out, it will be an exciting, cool and inspiring weekend.

And in the end, it all comes down to the one, dreaded, central question: What the hell am I supposed to wear?